dizzzylu:

Is it cool/not cool to post fic based on someone else’s tags? Idk, idk! This is why I never tumblr fic. I’m to worried about stepping on toes. Except I totally porned tonight, something I haven’t done in awhile, so…if I’m stepping on toes, I’m sorry. Inspired by alltruthwaitsinallthings’ tags:

#derek takes this photo one afternoon#it’s an overcast sunday #they’re waiting for the delivery from that mexican place derek loves #stiles puts on the only clothing he’s willing to and waits #shifts around until he’s comfortable and this is it #so derek snaps the photo#loves that it’s so stiles #that this is their place #theirs #so he takes the photo and climbs back into the bed #by the time the delivery guy shows up #they’re both naked again#so derek gets up and tugs on those underwear #smirks at stiles’ broken little groan as he leaves the room #he has never been so stupidly happy in his life

“I heard that,” Stiles says, his voice hoarse, still. He tilts his head back, craning his neck to look at Derek upside-down. His feet are aimed in the opposite direction, his long legs stretched out along the wall, resting over his Arctic Foxes poster.

“So what?” Derek directs to the phone in his hand. He busies himself with changing its wallpaper so he doesn’t have to look at Stiles. At his pleased grin and the hickey on his collar bone. 

“Who’d you send it to?”

Derek sets his phone down on the dresser and approaches the bed. “Nobody.” 

“So then what’d you take it for?” Stiles asks with a laugh.

“Because.” The space next to Stiles is warm when Derek kneels next to him, his hand combing through Stiles’ hair where it’s been flattened.

“You are so weird,” Stiles murmurs, almost a purr. He turns into Derek until his nose bumps Derek’s knee, his hand seeking warm, naked skin.

Derek snorts and leans down and whispers, “Says the guy with his feet sticking up in the air,” into Stiles’ ear. His lips skim along Stiles jaw to his chin. The skin there is starting to get sandpapery with Stiles’ version of scruff and Derek licks at it, liking the rough texture on his tongue.

“You knew what I was like before we started this,” Stiles says with a gasp, his hand sinking into Derek’s hair to hold him in place at his chest.

Derek tries to murmur a reply around Stiles’ nipple, but it comes out wet and garbled, and sucking on Stiles’ nipple is more important, anyway. He want to focus on Stiles’ chest rising and falling under Derek’s hands and mouth, the gasps Stiles tries to hold in, the wild thump of his heart against his ribs. It doesn’t take long for Stiles to start whimpering, for his legs to crumple and his knees to nudge Derek in the head. Derek can smell the precome already.

“How long ‘til the food gets here?” Stiles asks, low. He still has a hand on Derek’s head, but the other has inched its way to his boxer briefs, and Derek has noticed how they seem to be moving; he’s certain his feet weren’t hanging off the bed two minutes ago.

“‘Bout forty-five minutes or so,” Derek says into Stiles’ belly, between wet sucking kisses. The muscles under his mouth tremble and he smooths his palm over them, working his way down until he’s stopped by gray elastic and a hint of dark, wiry hair. 

Stiles gasps, “Plenty of time, then,” and shoves at his boxer briefs. Derek keeps them from getting tangled in Stiles’ feet and tosses them somewhere over his shoulder, too intent on getting his Stiles’ dick in his mouth to care. He sucks just long enough to get Stiles squirmy and and slick, his groans high and breathy. Before Stiles can get too into it, Derek pulls off with a loud slurp, his tongue dragging around the crown, and looks up to find Stiles’ pout.

“Where’s the lube?”

Stiles’ head drops back on a groan, but he manages to give a vague hand wave toward the head of the bed, the space behind Derek. “Somewhere up there, dude. I don’t know.” 

Derek isn’t in a hurry, but the sheets are all twisted among the pillows and it’s hard to find anything in the mess. Stiles sits up once to try and help, but Derek shoves him back down with a palm to Stiles’ chest. “I got it,” Derek growls, and he does, finally, in the middle of the massive knot, of course.

He knee-walks up the bed, nudging in between Stiles’ spread thighs until they can’t open anymore and then slings his legs over, one at a time, until he’s straddling Stiles, his ass snug against Stiles’ cock. He rocks into it a few times to catch Stiles’ attention, then focuses very deliberately on opening the lube and squirting it onto his fingers.

“Yeah, c’mon,” Stiles hisses, hips bucking up once. His eyes are wide and dark, and his hands twitch at his sides, elbows propped up so he can see everything Derek does.

Derek rises up, as tall as he can be on his knees, and makes no show about getting his fingers inside of him, two at once. The burn is a little much, but it doesn’t take long for Derek to work himself through it, pumping in and out of himself in a slow rhythm. Stiles’ hand finds Derek’s knee and squeezes, the nails digging into Derek’s skin, giving him something else to focus on.

He doesn’t work himself too open, though. Only a few minutes worth of careful stretching. He wants to feel the drag of Stiles’ dick, wants Stiles to lose it with how tight Derek is. Derek wants that short, bright moment of being near human, feeling the pleasure-pain of it as long as he can.

With Stiles’ hands on his hips, Derek sinks down onto Stiles’ cock. It’s slow going with how tight he is, but Stiles’ litany of “Oh shit, oh shit,” is worth it, the way his eyes roll back only to open wide again, watching every inch of himself disappear into Derek’s body, until they’re skin to skin, their harsh breathing the only sound in the room.

“You are amazing,” Stiles rasps.

Derek smirks down at him. “I know.” He doesn’t move yet, even though Stiles legs tremble with it, the need to thrust up.

“You’re also an asshole.”

“I know that, too,” and proves Stiles’ point with a slow roll of his hips. He keeps on like that for awhile, lazily fucking himself while watching Stiles, the sweat gathering at his temples and along his collar bone, how his tongue pokes out to lick his dry lips. He can’t seem to decide whether he wants to keep his eyes open or not, alternating between throwing his head back and groaning through it or focusing wide, unseeing eyes on Derek.

But soon Derek needs more and he leans forward, hands flat on the bed on either side of Stiles’ chest. It changes the angle, but also means he has to work harder to take Stiles deeper. Their skin slapping together is both the best and worst sound he’s ever heard, but it’s good, so good.

It still isn’t…Derek needs more. He wants his mouth on Stiles, wants to nip at his mouth and feel Stiles’ gasps against his chest. “Sit up,” he slurs, tugging at whatever part of Stiles’ body Derek can get his hand on; a shoulder, probably.

Stiles’ gasps out, “I can’t,” like it physically hurts him to say it. “My abs are not your abs.”

“Such a whiner,” Derek growls, and tugs Stiles up by the neck so he can kiss him wet and sloppy. 

“Oh,” Stiles gasps, somewhere in the middle, and wraps his arms around Derek’s neck. This pulls Derek’s head down, his wide open mouth pressed against salt-tangy skin. It’s only natural, then, for Derek to bite it, to stroke his tongue over it and suck until blood rushes to the surface. He does it again on the other side, again on Stiles’ shoulder, his rhythm breaking down because he isn’t paying attention.

“Derek,” Stiles croaks right into Derek’s ear. “I gotta come, Derek, please.” 

The desperation there pulls Derek back and he slings his arm around Stiles’ waist, pulling him close to give Derek’s cock something to grind against. The angle isn’t great, Stiles hardly hitting Derek’s prostate at all, but Derek doesn’t care. What he needs is for Stiles to be close, to be here. 

The fuck with their cheeks pressed together, Derek’s dick sliding through Stiles’ sweat, Stiles’ hands flat on Derek’s back, low where Derek’s orgasm builds, slow and warm, spooling out of him inch by inch until he’s coming all over Stiles’ stomach and letting him sink backward onto the mattress. 

“Oh,” Stiles says, dazed, close to his own orgasm. He trails his fingers through the mess on his belly and gives one finger an experimental lick. Derek watches it all until he can’t, until even his superhuman muscles can’t hold him up, using the last of his strength to roll them both over. 

“C’mon,” he says, nudging Stiles in the ass. “I need you to come in me.” He’s restless with it, his body unsettled, yet. 

Stiles groans, “You can’t say things like that,” but his hips start moving, slow at first, until he gets his knees under him and he can find the rhythm he needs. It’s easier like this, to send off sparks behind Derek’s eyes, but it’s almost too much, his hands gripping too tight to Stiles’ hips to keep himself grounded. It only takes a handful of minutes, though, for Stiles to finish, arms collapsing underneath him. His body is a pleasant weight on top of Derek and he lets them lie there for a minute, for Stiles, at least, to catch his breath.

Stiles moves first, pulling out slow and careful. He uses his thumb to circle Derek’s rim a few times, smearing the come over Derek’s skin, pushing it back inside. Derek likes to watch Stiles’ face when he does this, takes in his rosy cheeks and his intensity. The hint of a confident smile at the corner of Stiles’ mouth. Eventually, his touch turns teasing and there’s a glint in his eye, one Derek cannot possibly answer just yet, so Derek reaches for Stiles’ wrist and tugs him up into a slow, lingering kiss. 

“Be right back?” Derek asks.

Stiles flops down onto his back, arms splayed every which way. “Bring some water, wouldja? I am <i>so hungry</i>. When is he getting here?” He pops his head up to look for his phone, but gives up when he remembers it’s next to Derek’s on the bureau.

Derek scans the floor from the edge of the bed and feels his face heat up. “He got here a couple of minutes ago.” There are clothes all over the floor, but he finally spots Stiles’ pair of boxer briefs, the ones Derek yanked off of him, flopped over the lamp. They’re a tight fit, but they smell like Stiles, and they still have the little spot of precome at the top of the fly. Derek ducks away from Stiles’ fist to get them.

“You did that on purpose!” Stiles yelps

With his back to Stiles, Derek shrugs and makes a show of pulling Stiles’ boxer briefs on, bending low until he hears Stiles’ muffled voice say, “You have got to quit stretching out all my underwear, you possessive freak.”

Derek shoots him a smirk from over his shoulder. “Not likely.”

“Fuuuck.”

(unbetad and not read through because I am supertired and late for bed. if you notice anything odd, let me know)